


Priorities, and How to Get Them Right

by Mei (Mei_Hitokiri)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Captain John Watson, Injured Mycroft, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 12:37:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1470115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mei_Hitokiri/pseuds/Mei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was, Mycroft decided, wholly unfair. Aged seven, when Mummy had come home with a screaming bundle of baby, he had resigned himself to never being anybody’s favourite. But not now. There was no way he wasn't being the priority this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Priorities, and How to Get Them Right

It was, Mycroft decided, wholly unfair. Aged seven, when Mummy had come home with a screaming bundle of baby, he had resigned himself to never being anybody’s favourite. There had been a brief stage when a four-year-old Sherlock had worshipped him, but that had passed rapidly. Even his partners hadn’t really liked him. During his day in University his various partners had cheated on him (blatantly, never behind his back), called out someone else’s name during sex or, memorably, asked for a threesome with his brother. Since then he’d assumed the role of ‘necessary evil’ in all that he did.

There had, however, been one time when he had been a priority.

\---

“Mr Holmes? Sir! Please open your eyes! I need you to open your eyes!” Mycroft blinked lazily at the obtrusive noise. Why now, of all times, was it important that he opened his eyes? Really, he’d just gotten comfortable. The room swam into a sort of focus; things were identifiable, but only if he really stared at them. Good God, what had happened to his hotel room? There was broken furniture strewn all over the place, and glass littered the floor like sand on a beach.

“Mr Holmes, just lie still Sir. There’s a helicopter on its way.” Now that was just ridiculous. All he wanted was some sleep – putting him in a helicopter would not be conducive to this plan. Mycroft turned his gaze to the source of this annoyance and frowned. Usually his assistant was sensible and collected. She wasn’t one to waste resources like this. He opened his mouth to tell her as such, but his chest felt like there was somebody sat on it. Trying again, all he managed was an odd sort of gurgling sound. Anthea’s face changed instantly.

“Just lie still and breathe as deeply as you can, Sir.” She brought a radio up to her mouth. “What’s your ETA? His breathing is worsening and he can’t speak.” Mycroft wanted to scowl at her, but he found it was far easier to just close his eyes and fall asleep.

\---

Upon waking, the first thing he registered was how much he ached. Not a single part of him didn’t throb in time with his heartbeat. Speaking of which, that particular rhythm seem to be so loud as to wake the dead. Evidently there was an ECG at his bedside; he made a mental note to ask for the volume to be turned down. Aside from the ache, his chest burned, his head felt like he’d been hit with a sledgehammer and his mouth and throat were utterly arid. He pushed his tongue forward to try and at least lick his lips, but found himself unable to move it.

Tentatively, he brought a hand up to his mouth. Something snagged against his skin, but his eyes felt too heavy to open them and see what it was. His tongue, he found, was trapped against the bottom of his mouth – prevented from moving by an oxygen tube that was fed down his throat. Upon further exploration he discovered a nasogastric tube taped to the side of his face and at least three cannulas or other lines fed into his chest, arms and hands. Voices outside prompted him to drop his hand, wishing to glean as much information as possible before opening his eyes. There was the hiss of a pressurised door, and then soft footsteps on the floor at the end of the bed.

“His name is Mycroft Holmes, Sir. Priority Ultra. Attacked at a meeting with the Jordanian Ambassador whilst in Palestine. Gunshot wound to the chest – entering low right rostral and exiting upper left caudal – multitude of fractured ribs, both lungs punctured. We believe they beat him afterwards, judging by the broken bones. Clavicle, jaw, malar, scaphoid and radius.” There was a soft metallic click that sounded like his notes being replaced at the end of the bed.

“But he’s otherwise stable?” A new voice. Male, soft, presumably a doctor.

“Yes. He hasn’t woken yet, though.” There were more soft noises, then the hiss of the door. Mycroft counted to ten and opened his eyes.

The light blinded him for a second and he couldn’t hold back the hiss as pain flared through his head.

“Just take it gently, Mr Holmes.” The doctor, Mycroft realised, was still in the room. “I’m sure you head the list of injuries just now, so I don’t need to tell you that you’re in no shape to do anything drastic.” As his vision cleared, Mycroft forced his eyes to focus on the doctor. He was shorter than expected – he spoke with the easy confidence of someone used to being obeyed instantly, which had given the impression of size – and his skin had the glowing golden kiss of someone used to sun exposure. His hair should have been mousy, a sandy blonde, but the sun had bleached it to a lighter shade.

It was his eyes that caught the eye though; a piercing blue, quick, intelligent, reliable and friendly. A strong nose led to a mouth used to laughter, though set more often than not in grim determination, and an even stronger jaw. Broad shoulders filled the perfectly pressed desert pattern DPM shirt, and the t-shirt underneath was tight enough to hint at a decidedly well-toned musculature. The knife-edge crease in his trousers flattened out where his thighs stretched the material, and disappeared where they rolled under and tied at the top of his neatly laced boots.

The irritated beep of his IV line snapped Mycroft out of his daze. The doctor was smirking at him; evidently his perusal and approval of his doctor’s physique had not gone unnoticed. The man in question stepped in close, reaching up to change the IV line and add a new bag of saline. Mycroft took the opportunity to stare unabashedly at his rather fine backside. Really, if one wanted to promote recovery and shorter stays in hospital they shouldn’t make their staff so attractive. Idly, Mycroft began to plan how he could seduce the man before he left.

Turning back around, the doctor sat himself on the visitor’s chair next to the bed.

“I’ll outline your treatment so far and our options for further procedures in a second, but I really ought to introduce myself first. As I’m sure you’ve worked out, Mr Holmes, I’m your doctor. Lieutenant John Watson.”

\---

But that was really rather off topic. As he stared at the CCTV still that one his surveillance team had just sent him, Mycroft decided that – for once – he wasn’t going to let him brother upstage him. No. Sherlock may now be living with Doctor Watson, but (as childish as it may have been), Mycroft had seen him first. And that meant Doctor Watson was his.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated, as always!
> 
> Chapter 2 is mostly written - though it has taken me the best part of six months to work up the courage to write it. As such, if anybody wouldn't mind giving it a quick read-over before I post it I would be most grateful. Drop me a line on Tumblr - I'm thealbinomonkey.
> 
> ~Mei


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